Only once, my sister’s dog stole puppies. In multiples.
A little over thirty years ago, Lisa took in a dog she named Mandy, a sprightly mix of cocker, her coat the color of a newborn penny. The female pet labored into this world with distemper. Lisa nursed her through the debilitating disease, set an alarm clock for every two hours, nighttime same as day, changed and washed Mandy’s bed, fed her chicken broth through a syringe, medicated and soothed the young pup, thwarted death, snatched life. Love and time: my sister handed Mandy’s life back to her. To us. News of Mandy, it was traded back and forth on phone lines as frequent as info on the kids we raised at home.
During her years, the petite Mandy carried rocks in her mouth, or if Lisa’s husband had any old work gloves around, she toted those in her mouth instead. She performed these strange feats when those she loved drove-up and parked on the graveled driveway of their mobile home. Prancing to the company’s car, picking up the rock or the glove, then sitting down beside her visitor, wagging her tail, cocking her head back and forth, her eyes shining, initiating communication with her guest. What do you think of this rock I brought you?
Mandy trusted but few in her life. She possessed a strong sense that our dad wasn’t a dog person, so she always growled and snarled at him, tried her best at a nip to his ankle. This, after Dad had managed the six hour drive to our homes. The trapped man wouldn’t get out of his car. Preferable it was if Lisa knew in advance the time Dad was expected; this way, she could run interference between the two. Small dogs have powerful bites.
Mandy must’ve been in-between puppies and lovers the day she ran a litter’s real mother off from a neighbor’s yard. She brought the five or six puppies to her own yard and tried to nurse them.
Count it odd. The stolen puppies thrived.
Too, she produced great litters of her own. Her babies varied as much as her lovers. When she was in season, the strumpet vaulted on top of Lisa’s chain-link fence, strutted and pirouetted for the new man (or men) in her life. She reminded us of an acrobat or perhaps a gold medal gymnast. She defied the laws of physics while she pranced upon a fence about the same width as the tail she fanned in the air, arrayed for the entire male-dog world to see and sniff.
Lisa whispered to her during these episodes, “You little B.”
A hundred in her life, the little ‘B’ nurtured puppies of her own. She wagged that sassy tail and eagerly solicited warm compliments concerning her stash. Her brown eyes twinkled; she danced a four-footed jig. Come see what I’ve made!
She was a mother.
Lisa mastered the art of puppy gifts. Same now as then, Chaparral Park
Too, back then, Fridays at the Lovington Auction Barn fared positive results. Friday auctions drew people of all ages; old men flocked to buy boots for two dollars, and others, in sweat-stained cowboy hats and dust-worn boots rode horses and herded-up beef for the show ring. The herdsmen’s silver spurs flashed and found their mark, their steed never failed, but dug into motion.
Old women, lined deep and well rouged, drank thick coffee, black and steamed. The aged females dragged on Camel cigarettes, talked between stained teeth, spoke in low tones to others, penciled eyebrows crimped in question or disbelief. The middle-aged women decked-out for the mix in tresses of bottled brunette. Others wore their hair pinked, or bleached in locks sprayed high and stiff.
Great bosoms napped and breathed, choked within bright polyester. The women’s printed blouses pushed-up grand squash blossoms of silver and turquoise, jewelry just as heavy and proud as the feminine cleavage that bore it. These women guarded silver-haired and slicked men; men that smelled loud and spiced, sported watches of gold.
It’s truly amazing how many parents, lovers and courtiers will give a puppy to someone they adore. Free love.
Lisa was able to give away all 105 or 106 puppies. And when all else failed, she talked me into taking one, “If I take one too?” she pleaded. The negotiation was always the same. I could never say no.
We split Mandy’s first litter because she only produced two that time. A neighbor’s black poodle was the obvious father, for the sons looked just like him—only with their mother’s fanned tail.
The first night of separation, both brothers cried all night. My sister and I tucked a ticking clock into each of their beds (a heartbeat of sorts), but that mission failed. After two nights of puppy cries, I drove to Lisa’s and picked up the other baby. I named the twins Ruckus and Rebel. They chewed up my rocking chair, strung out a roll of toilet paper, one that proved to be my last. They shredded a letter, a very long letter.
I purchased chains for the black brothers and put the boys outside. They tried to hang themselves around the tires of my station wagon. The next day I exchanged doggy chains for doggy shirts. Statements of charming, a nice fit.
My poodle-mixes inspected Lovington at their leisure. Chased squirrels at the courthouse and sunned on the bank secretary’s car. If you love something, let it run free all over the place, all day long or whenever it wants to. It worked for a long while, but finally, someone spoiled our act. The dogcatcher strived in vain for a while that day, but at last, captured my dogs, thanks to me. He’d made me a promise to try and give them away, keep them together if I’d help him secure the two.
Gullible, I believed him. “Ruckus! Here, Rebel!” I called.
Trusting souls. They emerged from underneath my sister’s mobile home.
Then later, their chocolate eyes conveyed confusion, the shock of betrayal, after I slipped the brothers into separate cages on the large white truck. I can picture those eyes today, four large and dark question marks.
Though it wasn’t their first capture, this time the fine was too steep. Breaking the law.
Love can cost a lot. I’d expected leniency due to compliance.
Mercy rather than judgment.
Except for a few rumors, hints of separation, I never saw or heard anything concerning them again.
I began to take in strays.
Orphans.
Mandy snubbed all dogs, save her own, or as in the one case, stolen puppies. Only six years old at the time, Lisa’s son asked her once, “When is Mandy going to die so that I can have a puppy?”
But my nephew had a while to wait. The old girl lived twelve years.
Mandy survived distemper, labor, and nursing over a hundred puppies. She survived a run-in with a pit bull that tore off a tit. Then a veterinarian told Lisa that Mandy had to be spayed. Without the procedure, Mandy would surely die. Death from birth. But her demise formed in a different fashion.
Spayed and set for survival, one awful day, somebody popped-off a target shot at Mandy. She suffered all night. When Lisa’s husband found the wounded pet, he put her down. Mandy watched while he shot her.
He hasn’t been able to put a dog down since, though he’s buried several.
Lisa’s son eventually got a puppy. They’ve raised many puppies since, and each time they swear, never again. But they always do.
When I told my sister over the phone I’d invited Eddy to live with us, she kind of laughed. I’d already taken in Kaika, my spontaneous and not always compliant stepson. Then I’d induced Eddy for a stay in Aaron’s room.
My sister had asked, “Why, honey? You don’t really even know him.”
“Well, I know. But I really enjoyed him on the Six Flags trip.” Eddy had assisted on a youth trip I’d attended with Kaika. “And he needs a place to stay.”
“And he’s Becky’s son.”
“Yes!” I seized her comprehension of the connection. Becky, Eddy’s mother, died in 2002 from ovarian cancer. She was my age—forty-seven at the time.
“And I think Aaron would like that Eddy’s in his room, and….”
“And what, De’on?”
“And I kind of feel like Mandy.”
“What?”
“I feel like I’m trying to steal puppies.”
That was back in 2005. A lot has changed since then, but certainly not as much as it did in 2004. Even our house has changed. Not the size, some things remain the same. Our house is only about thirteen hundred square feet. Since 2005, two of the three small bedrooms have turned into one bedroom and a walk-in closet. If thine wall offends thee, cut it out, so to speak.
Rose Kennedy once said, “Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn't people feel as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them?” Another famous quote of Rose Kennedy’s was, “It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.”
I’m not certain which statement was coined first, but I’d be willing to place a bet.
One morning in 2005, the October sun had not yet peeked over our desert home. My husband slept a tranquil sleep. My cat, Sarah, already at her morning bath. She had an easy life back then. I’d not yet brought home the ornery Desert Lynx kitten we named Cady. (We adopted the motherless kitten three years ago; her name means simple happiness. She’s diabetic, requires insulin injections twice daily. Her ancestors include the bobcat. Young, she’s Sarah’s problem. Well, my husband’s too, twice daily.)
I turned off the ceiling fan that morning, as there was a slight chill in our room. I’d just recently had Sarah shaved. Her new “do” was something called a lion cut. If the little darling were canine instead of feline, she would’ve resembled a snooty black and white poodle. We had the procedure done because as a longhaired and senior citizen kitty, she’d begun to let herself go. Eleven years old then (not quite sixty-four in our human count), her mass boasted seventeen pounds. I adopted her when she was two weeks old, so she’s quite indulged—a little orphan, once nursed and bathed by a human. I’m not sure if her feline mother was scared off or destroyed. Perhaps Sarah was dumped. She’s never attracted many friends.
But same then as now, she’d forsaken careful forethought in her toiletry, except for hair within easy reach—she doesn’t like to strain herself too much. Hair mats of old pulled at her skin, but she wouldn’t let us near her with scissors. Everything with Sarah works only once, so I was happy to observe her sandpaper tongue deft at work while she lounged on my bed that morning. I’d be getting my Marine quilt out soon, and I couldn’t have her dingle-berrying up the mosaic of love and color that had arrived to me by way of charitable people all over the United States just a year earlier. Condolence. My second and last son’s name and rank, front and center: Guarding the streets of Heaven. Lance Corporal Aaron C. Austin. Songs, prayers, appliqués, all stitched and pronounced, block-by-block. A parameter of expressed gratitude guarded the name of the sentinel. Young children had imprinted their hands and painted their ages that memorable year. Maria H. 7/2, Brianna H. 8. The crafters didn’t know me personally; they somehow knew my Marine son—or rather, someone like him. Someone like Aaron.
I buried my first son on April 4, 1973, just two days after he died. He was sick when he was born. I think it’s called “challenged” now, though back then the diagnosis was profound mental retardation. Microcephalic they called it. Shane’s small head, small brain and tiny body lived only seventeen months. It took his mother ten years to chance gestation again.
Aaron lived over twenty-one years, just nearly twenty-two. Shot multiple times in the chest by machine gunfire, it took death three times to capture him. He died the third time while the surgeons prepped him; they weren’t as successful as the Corpsman had been twice before. That was April 26, 2004. Aaron wasn’t buried until May 3. It took a few days to get his body back from Iraq.
I have no girls. No grandchildren.
Gone now too is my stepson, Kaika. He didn’t die, but moved back to Washington to the mother he’d left for less than a year. The short period he called me Mom, he slept to the right of his dad’s bedroom and mine. His room is my closet now. A closet and a bathroom of black and white tile. Very cold tile.
On that 2005 fall morning, the sight in the bedroom to the right was that of customary, that of teen, a floor covered in clothes and video games. In the midst, three sprawled male bodies, all aged sixteen, slept the dreams of youth squeezed into a double bed.
There was Don with his Mohawk haircut. His bit of plume, jet-black that week. His head wrenched upon one of the two pillows; one black Converse rested sideways as best it could on a crowded bed and turned foot. Oddity pushed out from rumpled covers.
Stoney, Kaika’s best friend and a regular at our house then, slept in the middle of the double bed and shared a pillow with Kaika. I couldn’t tell if Stoney had shoes on, as he was well covered, but Kaika’s feet and legs stuck out.
Barefoot, Kaika has short stumpy toes. They remind me of Fred Flintstone’s feet. Kaika’s half-bare legs, long like his dad’s, sprawled across both his friends’ shorter versions. His brown, nearly shoulder-length hair fanned out on the pillow, somewhat covered Stoney’s face.
I smiled as I surveyed them. They looked horribly uncomfortable.
Within this same room abided Hennessy, who suffered from both arthritis and hip dysplasia. He hobbled on three legs back then, but still coveted his twice-daily walks. The walks had helped his obesity somewhat. We’d just learned he was down to seventy-eight pounds then, more fat than muscle by this time, something Aaron probably wouldn’t have easily forgiven me of.
In a large sense, Hennessy is an orphan too, though he wasn’t separated from a lactating mother. As a sophomore in high school, Aaron brought the puppy of eight weeks home. A puppy born in autumn, he was the color of pumpkin, and the American Pit Bull Terrier’s legs were as skinny as the sophomore’s. They slept together, ran together, rode together. When my son left for the Marine Corps, naturally, he left Hen with us.
I know Hen has never forgotten Aaron. I know that. My son’s dog pawed and whined at the one box, itemized and brought home to us by two Marines in dress blues. After Hen sniffed, scratched and whined at the box, he did the same at Aaron’s bedroom door. Closed door. Two years later, Aaron’s orphaned dog sniffed and slept on his master’s duffle bag, one that’d been packed away since Aaron’s last Christmas with us, 2003. My son never missed Christmas at home. It was our thing. Always. Christmas.
Today, Hen sleeps on my husband’s lap in the evenings, in touch with his inner Chihuahua. Ninety pounds, and frosting on the pumpkin.
He’ll never forget.
But maybe he no longer mourns. Maybe.
Next to Hennessy was Isaac, a Queensland Blue Heeler who was once an orphan also. Isaac, no longer with us, was about ten when we had him put down. He was always skittish and insanely jealous. His redeeming quality: he adored Hennessy. Hen was a year older than Isaac in doggy years. I used to wonder how we’d manage if we lost Hennessy before Isaac. The Heeler wouldn’t even eat until Hennessy did first. Isaac used to get excited when he saw his comrade had been leashed-up for a walk. He licked Hen’s eyes and nose; he vicariously loved life through the alpha male. Happy, happy, joy, joy he seemed to say. Aaron coined that phrase during an argument of hubby’s and mine one day. Funny. We laughed. Later.
Heelers are known for herding. At one time, Isaac wouldn’t lead, so he had to stay home after a few tries of trailing us loose. Off the leash, he tried to herd other people who entered onto the scene by accident. He nipped at their ankles, then we paid for a dog bite.
Yes, we’re a bit of a faulty family, but Isaac finally learned how to lead. Life lends promise at times.
It got hard watching Isaac hold on.
It was this past Christmas we had to have Isaac put down, or rather three days after. Christmas 2009. But I’ll always remember it as the first year we didn’t put up a tree, didn’t shop, didn’t wrap. Somehow, the energy just wasn’t there this past year. Six Christmases without Aaron.
So as it turned out, Isaac wasn’t left without Hennessy. But the alpha male mourned the Heeler much more than we’d ever have thought, so just recently we got Hen a baby we named Doc. Born December 15 (we didn’t know about him until the following February), the meaning of our longhaired Chihuahua mix’s name is twofold: medicine for Hen and tribute to the Navy’s Corpsmen.
Doc’s a feisty mix, the color of cinnamon toast, barely burnt around the edges. With his floppy ears and thick wave, he resembles Mandy somewhat. His tail is different though. Not fanned but curled, nearly as tight as a piglet’s. Two dark almond shapes staring at you when he’s coming, one little dim circle staring when he’s leaving. That waggley tail exposes all. Rather than an overbite, his is under, almost as if he’s got a perpetual tobacco dip hidden in his lowers. The groomer tells me a dog’s genetics can go back five generations, and who knows what all’s in the mix, but he shouldn’t get too big, should stay the size of my lap.
He’s the kind of doggie you’d see in the window. The kind of gift you’d give to a kid or your sweetheart at Christmas.
And maybe he’ll last as long as I do. Maybe.
Hen wasn’t as impressed with Doc as we’d hoped. All Hen’s life he’s loved the little ones, but this one was staying, not visiting. Too, the big guy has surely grown bored with our pride in the little one’s tee-tees and pooh-poohs outside. The elder must think, I’ve been doing that outside for years.
Doc’s a puppy in touch with his pit-bull-self. Thinks nothing of grabbing Hen’s food, and even after the alpha male lines the little guy out, Doc’s not afraid to crawl right up over Hen’s back, lick his toes, sniff his backside. When Hen grows weary of the intimate inventory, he lets Doc know, but soon enough, six pounds tucks itself right up to ninety.
That fall morning, nearly five years ago, a pet taxi imprisoned a tiny kitten next to Kaika’s bed. The prisoner had found his way into our home just a couple of days before. Because of my sister’s prodding, I’d allowed Kaika to bring the orphan inside, out of the cold. Another orphan, fed, warmed and cuddled. Happy, happy, joy, joy. I’d suggested that Kaika name the tomcat. He chose Bones, the pet name of his maternal grandmother, but my husband didn’t like that name, so Kaika named the kitten Bob. Two minutes of time and thought put into the kitten’s name made me wonder what Kaika will someday name his own children.
When the boys finally awakened (as fast as sixteen-year-olds are able), Kaika sauntered into the living area with a small box and said matter-of-factly, “The kitten is dead. I think fleas sucked the blood out of him because when Don opened the cage door, about ten fleas jumped on him.”
A million foreseeable chores and annoyances jumped into my head. As fast as the ten fleas, suddenly everyone was scurrying around, spraying, washing, asking, “Where’s the shovel?”
Then I remembered Sarah. Scratching. Bathing a rare bath. At that moment, I was itching all over. The kitten. Bob. Gone. Life and death take strange turns. Fed, warmed, cared for, the orphan left us after all. Left us with fleas. Thank you, Bob.
Death had dropped into our lives once again, but still, Eddy, who’d already moved in by that time, continued with his sleep in the room that once was Aaron’s. Twenty-six then, he worked at the radio station, played guitar and wrote music. He still plays guitar and writes music. Today he works as an EMT and rescues others, but on that day, he slept through all the flea spraying and kitty burying.
Aaron could’ve slept through all that too, once he grew still.
Since Aaron, since Kaika, since Eddy, my husband and I have rescued others. There was a few days with the man who’d rob us, go to prison, then sue us. Later inhabitants included a newborn baby girl and her mother the crack addict who’d rob us in eight days herself. So we said, never again. Shaved off one of the bedrooms, returned Aaron’s room to Aaron’s room.
We’re not bitter. Hope holds us, sometimes finds us in the form of a Christmas puppy, one the color of cinnamon toast.
Felines and canines, we just keep adding on. Like our offspring, they steal our hearts. Arrival, departure, it’s all part of the mix.
He-dogs and she-cats, they’ve spent trial run days in Sevin Dust and flea spray, perhaps they’ve even dreamt of what life might bring them, today they give no thought to death, but stay close and still. They trust we’ll always care for them. That we’ll never depart. They don’t number their days, but instead, nestle in each budded season.
Content. Safe.
They rest.
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